This last installment of the Path of Becoming series ties the threads together: poetry, reflection, and flight. A reminder that becoming is open to all, and that more adventures are on the horizon. đżïž
The boy lifted his head
Echoing the directorâs rhythm:
âMark time mark.
Five. Six. Seven. Eight.â
He pumped his thighs.
The shells in his plaits pounced against burning ears.
His toes retraced
The steps orchestrated
On his front lawn
As Hopeless waves
Crashed
Disguised as sweat beads.
Their purple flags
Flopped like birds
Unsteady in the air.
Velvet rippled,
Edges quivered,
And his misery whispered.
âFlag straight,â
The boy reminded himself.
âDrop spin, drop spin,â
He recited like a prayer.
Smiling wide,
His eyes sought approval.
One teammate tilted her head
As his signal to
Spread his wings,
Swoop the pole downward,
And twist his arms behind
To form the butterfly.
Onlookers snickered at the broken kite whipped by the wind.
But his chest poked out.
A sigh flared from his nostrils.
His mind reassured his heart,
âStep right. Swing left.
I got this part.â
Off the field,
He was still billowing;
Swaying with the wind
Only to crash hard.
Reflections from the Sidelines
As I grew older, it became clear: I was battling depression as a teenager. At Amherst County High, I felt disconnected; out of place, cut off, and missing my old school. I chose isolation over trying to fit in. That stayed true until an opportunity came: color guard.
A tryout poster hung in the hallway when I was in 11th grade. I took a chance and went since I had nothing else going on. I wasnât a part of any club or group. I remember that hot after-school tryout like it was yesterday. I was the only boy there who auditioned. We were all given a dance number. I was nervous, but a rush of excitement carried me. I followed the instructorâs directions, unsure anything would come of it. Soon after, the names were posted on the bulletin board and somehow, I was chosen along with 10 girls. There I was:
Introverted. Black. Whispering queer.
And I had no idea what I got myself into nor the creativity it would bring out of me.
For one, we built makeshift flags. The bright pink, purple and silver pieces stood out from a pile of heavy, hideous flags. We fastened them with black duct tape at the top and bottom of the poles.
Then, every weekday after school we had to rehearse especially for the first game. Somehow, when I finally got the steps down, my spirit came alive. I wasnât the fragile Dominique hiding behind baggy jeans, tall t-shirts, and Air Force Ones. I was stripped down to gym shorts and a T-shirt learning flag movements such as the Butterfly. Each swing of the flag felt like tethering myself to the wind as if I was training to be a kite.
We were encouraged to take our flags home and practice. Picture a closeted teenager, spinning a flag in front of the whole neighborhood. I kept at it until I marched on the field with my girls in a bright purple velvet tank, wide-legged black pants, and braids beaded at the ends. I stood out, no question. But each swing of the flag felt like a string pulling me upward.
From day one, I was thrilled about practices, games, and competitions. More of my true self revealed itself in color guard. Sadness turned into satisfaction. That feeling of being left out dissipated. My affiliation with the marching band and my team earned me quite a bit of recognition from peers who would otherwise not acknowledge me.
But the real drastic change came my senior year.
I continued into color guard, but this time the girls elected as a captain. Once again, the lone boy in a sea of sequins. The band director announced that we will be dancing to Michael Jacksonâs Thriller, and the captain was responsible for coming up with the guard choreography. I wasnât a professional cheerleader or dance coach, but our color guard teacher believed in me, and I was entrusted to the task.
Iâll never forget that day. I came home from school, stepped into the front yard, and blasted the bandâs version of Thriller. Within hours, I had the silhouette of a routine. Depression wasnât gone, but it quieted. I was too busy laughing, too busy moving. By the time we marched it on the field, our team danced to steps I had shaped. It was incredible. Life-giving. I looked forward even more to mornings, practices, and Friday nights. Pepping up classmates, teachers, football players, and my family filled me with pride.
In marching band, it felt like I was floating. I was a kite in the air, bright and bold swinging with the pockets of the wind. The truth that I discovered during joining color guard is that there is joy of whatâs ahead in the path to becoming. This freedom didnât eliminate depression, but the delight gave me something to look forward to. A flag to twirl. A dance number to learn in the hallway. A Friday night to count down. Color guard took the rock inside of me and turned it into soft sand. I let gusts of wind pick me up knowing if I fell another gale was coming.
We are all kites, learning to catch the wind, finding our way into the sky. The Path of Becoming is certainly not easy. But it is open.
